


Wide Eyes

by happypostit, night_reveals



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dark, Monsters, Other, Rape, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:57:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happypostit/pseuds/happypostit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a personal job for Saito, Arthur and Eames drop into a young girl's mind. </p><p>What they find there follows them to the surface.</p><p>[please read content notes. A/E, A/monster.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> **content notes:** non-con (arthur/tentacles). non-con voyeurism (eames watching arthur). emotional fallout. dark.  
>  **betas:** [krytella](http://krytella.livejournal.com/)
> 
> This is the promised tentacles fic, originally started about five months ago for _[Tentacular Spectacular](http://night-reveals.livejournal.com/17246.html)_. Julia and I wrote it piece-meal over months and months, working through me traveling all over and her graduating and starting a big-girl life. It is based off the classic Japanese "tentacle rape" trope. It will not be a fic for everyone. It is not tentacuddles. Please read the content notes, and if in doubt about your comfort with reading non-con, please do not proceed. Alternatively, feel free to send any questions about content before reading.

“It’s refreshing not having to break and enter for once,” says Eames as he kicks off his shoes at the entrance to the house. Dark green vines surge along the edges of a nearby rock garden, a merging of old Europe and ancient Japan that is not wholly unlike their employer.

Next to him Arthur also toes off his loafers, shrugging. “I suppose.”

“Do I sense disappointment?” asks Eames, already knowing that he does.

“You know a good B&E is my favorite way to spend a night,” returns Arthur, deadpan.

“I knew that my bed could never compare to your criminal tendencies.” Which is true. Eames does know that his bed doesn’t compare to Arthur’s job, a fact made even more obvious by Arthur’s refusal to fuck him when they are both on said job. Once Eames had tried to explain that the whole point of being fuck-buddies was to make work more rewarding; Arthur had merely shrugged and said, “I’m uncomfortable with it.”

There really hadn’t been anything Eames could say to that.

So, during jobs Eames goes dry or calls one of the beautiful women he knows around the world – most of them capable of killing him in assorted manners – for sex and company. There is still something about Arthur, though, that keeps Eames coming back despite the inconveniences. It’s a train of thought he jumps on and off at will, never wondering too deeply about it. The relationship is mutually gratifying, and that is what is important.

 

Light fills the large empty spaces of the house. A member of the help wordlessly opens the door to the girl's room for them.

Eames would normally feel creepy if not utterly skeevy as an intruder into a sixteen year old girl’s room, but somehow being invited in by a family member takes some of the sting away. 

When he shares this insight with Arthur, Arthur laughs and eyes him from across the room.

“Really?” Arthur asks. “Saito may have given us the go ahead, but we’re still poking through a kid’s personal belongings so that we can play amateur psychologist in her head.”

Standing in front of the nightstand, Eames spares a look for a picture of a smiling girl of six or seven that must be from years ago. He flips it over onto its front, hiding it. No kid should have such accusatory eyes.

“Cheers,” Eames says under his breath. “I feel so much better now.”

Arthur shrugs, ignoring Eames’ sarcasm in favor of returning his attention to the room around them. “Perspective, Eames. Get some.”

Losing perspective is no danger, of course. Invading teenage girls’ dreams may have been Eames’ goal fifteen years ago, but Eames is all grown up now. The only reason he's traipsing around Japan is Saito’s considerable wallet. He'd invited Arthur and Eames in to lead an extraction from his niece, a poor girl who seemed to be the target of some rather cruel bullies at her top-tier high school. Saito wants names. So far Arthur and Eames have very pointedly not asked what Saito wants those names for.

Eames personally thinks extracting the information instead of just asking is going a bit far but he’s not one to argue with a rich man's fancy; he _does_ have some unfortunate debts left, after all. When Saito’s man had tracked Eames to Khartoum and slid over a sharp business card with a number written on the back – well. It was enough money to both pay his debts in full and send his qualms on a long, perhaps interminable vacation.

“Look.” From his corner Arthur tosses Eames a book.

Unconsciously, Eames catches and opens it. The first thing he notices is that it’s a comic book. It's written in Japanese and thus incomprehensible to him, but the art speaks for itself.

“Mother Mary,” he says, almost whispering. He flips through the pages, fascination taking over. It reminds him of the vines outside, curling and looping...

“Hey, I’m checking out her bathroom,” says Arthur from across the room, but the pages of the book – more like a very thick magazine, really – are so different from anything else Eames has ever seen that he doesn’t bother responding. He can’t read it, of course, but the story is more “See Spot Go” than Shakespeare. Towards the end he sees a little red heart drawn in the upper corner of a page, not unlike the doodles that girls in Eames’ classes once drew. It must be hers.

“Alright, pervert,” interrupts Arthur, snatching the book back. “We’ve got actual work to do, here.”

“That could be relevant to her psychological profile,” points out Eames, fighting the instinct to grab the book back. He never lets others know what he wants, if he can help it.

Arthur scrunches up his face in disbelief and shrugs, placing the book back into the shelf. “I pulled it from a sea of romance novels. I doubt it. Bad joke by her brother, maybe. We’ve got her tomorrow for ten minutes for a practice run before the actual extraction. We can always come back later.”

Eames frowns but lets it go for the moment. Teamwork. Of course.

  


They plan in a hotel suite in Marunouchi, Tokyo, catered to by staff Eames never sees. It’s only he and Arthur for this part; the chemist will be flown in for the actual extraction, though Arthur and he will get to run amok in the girl’s mind that day.

Eames shakes his head and turns the water taps on. His peace only lasts a few minutes, though, Arthur soon rapping his knuckles on Eames’ bathroom door.

Sticking his sopping wet head out, Eames says, “Knew you fancied the B&Es. Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Sneaking up on you lights a fire in my loins, what can I say,” replies Arthur, pushing one of his white dress shirt sleeves a little higher. “C’mon, we’re meeting Saito's man and the girl in thirty.”

“I sincerely do hope we are not actually meeting her,” says Eames, voice muffled from the dry towel he’s dragging over his face. “Rather awkward situation to explain.”

“You know what I mean,” replies Arthur, already heading back to his room. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

“Shall I break into your room, as well?”

“As if you could,” scoffs Arthur in a parting shot, not even bothering to grin over his shoulder.

Eames turns on his heel back into the bathroom and gets ready, taking his sweet, sweet time.

  


The next time Eames turns around it’s to a large pane of glass sprouting from the wall, slamming up into the ceiling to cut him off from Arthur.

“Shit,” says Eames, almost falling down. “Arthur!”

Frowning, Arthur unholsters his Beretta and looks at the glass critically. “Can you hear me, too?” he asks. His voice is crystal clear.

“I can,” replies Eames, wishing he’d originally dreamt up a gun for this run-through and suddenly on edge despite the lack of violence.

Arthur paces up and down the wall of glass, pushing against it from the other side, once even kicking, to no avail. 

“It’s too strong.” Arthur frowns and levels his gun at a section of the glass about ten feet from Eames. “I’m going to try and shoot through.”

In his head Eames sees this is a bad idea. He doesn’t know why, he just knows they need to get out. This has been strange from the get go: no projections at all, just him and Arthur walking down the maze Arthur’d created, waiting for the subject – Rin – to fill it with something, anything.

“We need to get out of here,” says Eames, sharp and quick. “Shoot yourself and wake me.”

On the other side Arthur snorts. “Giving up so easily?”

“Just do it,” orders Eames, but Arthur ignores him, so assured with himself.

“If I can’t get through this, fine.”

Three shots ricochet off the glass. Another four follow at various angles when Arthur realizes his bullets aren’t denting it at all. Anyone else would swear but Arthur just clenches his jaw tight, drawing the muscle between his neck and his shoulders tense with annoyance, an area that Eames bruises after jobs, sometimes, when Arthur wants it.

“Now that you’ve made your point,” says Eames, getting more annoyed. They need to go back up and try again, study the subject in-depth and create a more welcoming environment for her to populate so they have something to work with. 

In the back of his mind as he berates Arthur, Eames thinks of a gun, trying to fill his hand with cool metal and plastic. Summoning objects in dreams can be difficult if you don't know the ins and outs of the object you want. Doing it with no knowledge is like trying to build something with no blueprint – but Eames knows guns and knows them well. He has no idea why his hand is still empty.

The beginnings of fear start in his stomach.

Busy with talking Arthur into shooting himself and with trying to summon a gun to his hand, Eames almost doesn’t notice the small movement at the corner of the room, a trickle of blue-black from the edges of the walls. It inches towards Arthur like the slow creep of a shadow, and Eames can feel the menacing vibes from even fifteen feet away.

Suddenly the dream contracts. Eames doesn’t know how, but he accepts without a doubt that there are no more escape routes left to them.

“Behind you,” he warns loudly, his heart-rate suddenly through the roof.

Arthur turns on his heel and Eames can’t fathom why, but the growing darkness leaves Arthur unperturbed; perhaps he doesn’t sense the malevolence, or see how the dream bubbles around it, vibrating slightly. Shots ring out; Arthur seems almost lazy, shooting the shadow-like blob bullet-by-bullet and noting its reaction as it sucks the metal up like it's thick jelly. Watching the way situations develop and recording reactions are things Arthur enjoys and Eames is all too happy to indulge Arthur’s insatiable need to know everything, but perhaps not here and now, with the unknown creeping up.

“Just do yourself in, you bloody –” The black blob starts to move faster, easing itself across the floor and gaining momentum and mass as it does.

For the first time Arthur’s movements take on a sense of urgency as he angles the gun up to his head to splatter his brains against the glass. He pulls the trigger, little smile on his face. Eames almost lets himself feel relief before he sees that nothing has happened.

Arthur has no more bullets.

It pains Eames to see Arthur misjudge anything, but even Arthur makes mistakes. He's been out of the field for a while, the Maldives if gossip is to be trusted, which it isn’t.

The sense of urgency Arthur had is obviously turning to full-blown panic, though any dreamer but Eames probably wouldn’t be able to tell: Arthur’s breathing has accelerated, and he’s clenching his jaw so hard Eames would chide him for grinding his teeth if there were anything funny about this situation at all. 

Black-blue tendrils start to form off the larger whole of the blob, wrapping around Arthur’s legs, sticking to his shoes and climbing up. Arthur doesn’t seem to know what to do, whether to strike out against it or stay still.

“Don’t let it up you,” orders Eames, pushing against the glass wall. He kicks hard enough that his thighs ache with trying to get through to help. The monster – that’s what it is, Eames recognizes it now from the book they’d seen in the girl’s house – moves quickly, though, looping its thick tentacles around Arthur’s middle, his thighs, his upper arms. Arthur windmills as he tries to tear the limbs off. 

With jerky movements the blob elevates Arthur off the floor, bearing all Arthur’s weight on its now-tangible limbs. From his new vantage point Arthur looks straight through the glass into Eames’ wide eyes, and Eames can tell: they are both thinking the same thing, that they know what’s coming and can’t do anything to stop it. They’ve lost control of this dream, perhaps never had it to begin with. It’s not the time for recriminations, but Eames can’t help thinking of the book. 

He _knew_ it was important.

Arthur opens his mouth to say something but Eames never finds out what, the monster stuffing one appendage – tentacle, Eames tells himself, it’s a tentacle – down Arthur’s gullet. There’s a glimmer of pride in Eames’ chest when he sees Arthur fighting with the one thing he can, his white teeth gleaming against the black as he tries to bite. Desperation turns him fierce and feral, and the sight is not nearly as beautiful as Eames once thought it would be.

With his bite Arthur breaks “skin” or something like it, but there seems no hope that it will ward off the monster. Arthur didn't look through the book all the way, but Eames did. 

That liquid isn’t blood.

“You’ll be fine, Arthur,” says Eames, voice strangled by its own impotency. They can only wait this one out until one of them dies in dream or the timed-kick is triggered – forty-five minutes in-dream. Hell. “It’s – “ he’s going to say _okay_ , though they both know it’s not, but even Eames can’t lie when he sees a small, almost hand-shaped tentacle sneak out the side of the blob. It’s going to undress Arthur. “ – I’m right here.”

The dark blue liquid is already working in Arthur’s bloodstream, but Arthur yet has enough presence of mind to glare at Eames for the meaningless soothing. Eames would glare at himself too.

Its poison delivered, the tentacle slips out of Arthur’s mouth to curl around his neck, a warning stripe of black against his adam’s apple. It’s then that Eames can tell Arthur starts to feel it, because his eyes widen and he keens, fucking keens like Eames has never heard before. Eames would pay good money to be the cause of it, and jealousy nips at the edges of the disgust and fascination he’s feeling, completely inappropriate but undeniably there.

“Eames, don’t,” Arthur gets out before another shudder wracks through him, head to toes. His cock is pressing hard against the line of his dark blue jeans, his dress shirt already hanging from his shoulders.

Eames remembers this panel, when the daring heroine’s resolve crumbled; just like before, he finds himself unable to look away. “I’ll be here for you,” he says voice shaky. He doesn’t look away. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Eames, I’m tellin’ – ” a black tentacle slips under Arthur’s waistband, and Eames can see it moving beneath his trousers. “ – tellin’ you to fuck off. Don’t wat – ”

He’s choked a moment later once more by a black, thick tentacle shoving into his mouth. It seems to squirm around and after a moment Eames realizes that it is burrowing deeper into Arthur, sliding down into his esophagus. Red creeps over Arthur’s face, the lack of oxygen getting to him. For only a second Eames feels true fear, but it’s gone just as fast when he realizes that if Arthur dies this will all be over. Sickly, he finds himself rooting for that very probability. The monster jerks Arthur’s waving arms back, enough that Eames can almost feel the twinge of pain himself. The glass shudders when Arthur manages a kick with his leg, the bottom of his shoe scuffing the glass, but limbs surround him soon enough to put an end to his insolence.

Just when Arthur’s eyes begin to roll back, the monster pulls out with a _shlep_ , leaving clear, mucus-like substance to drop down from Arthur’s mouth. It must be the poison in Arthur’s system that makes him do it, but instead of spitting it out he licks at his lips and lets out a small moan. The tentacle shrinks and wipes under Arthur’s chin almost gently, a swipe of its flesh into its own lubrication. Exhaustion already seems to be upon Arthur in some regard, for he barely reacts to the prodding, as if seeing what is happening to himself through a mirror.

Somehow the lack of reaction is more terrifying to Eames than anything else he has seen thus far. Arthur’s slightly vacant expression is a call to Eames to _do_ something, even though the means remain obscured to him. What happens below sometimes follows them up, and that look in Arthur’s eye – like he’s retreated into himself, or worse – might just break free of the dream to become Arthur’s reality. Eames doesn’t want to take that chance, but also doesn’t see another choice.

“No, Arthur,” croaks someone in the room. It’s Eames voice, Eames knows that, but he doesn’t feel like he’s inside his own body because this can’t be happening. Arthur isn’t perfect and Eames well knows that, but Arthur’s never helpless, either.

Glancing down at his hands, Eames is surprised to see them a raw red; he has been beating the glass in front of him, trying to smash through, but it’s like trying to pierce bullet-proof armor with a hammer. It won’t happen. Ever practical, Eames splays his hands across the cool glass and watches his hand imprint onto it, little puffs of heat and cold playing together to leave a ghost of himself behind. It doesn’t take long for his vision to slide back to Arthur, however, where black almost completely engulfs Arthur’s naked body. His clothes seem to have disappeared, as if they were devoured.

“Shit, shit, please – ” Arthur says when the monster lifts him higher and closer to the glass. It lets only his hands go, and Arthur falls onto the glass, trying to find his equilibrium even as he’s hoisted into the air.

“This is almost over,” lies Eames, trying to keep his voice steady. He puts his hands against where Arthur’s are on the glass and feels nothing but cold, impersonal glass. He wishes desperately that he could touch Arthur’s hands instead, which are always cool and slightly clammy. “Just. Hold it together.”

That’s when Eames sees the tip of one of the monster’s thick limbs oozing clear slime as it slides up and up Arthur’s leg to nuzzle Arthur’s balls. Eames can’t help his sudden gasp, or his stare.

“Don’t look, please,” Arthur says again. He closes his eyes and his chest expands with a deep breath, right before Eames sees tentacle push up, slow and steady. From his vantage point below Arthur, Eames can _see_ it going into the tiny hole he himself has had many times, and he finds himself laying his head against the glass, suddenly light-headed. He can't look away.

“God, fuck! Make it s– ” shouts Arthur, choking on the last syllable. But Eames can’t make it stop. And it’s just – the tentacle is so _thick_ , thick as Eames’ forearm at the least. There’s never been enough trust between them that something like fisting came up in conversation or bed, but Eames almost wishes it had – anything that would have helped Arthur here, stretched him out. It’s a moot point now.

In front of Eames, Arthur falls forward onto the glass as the monster seems to focus completely on Arthur’s lower body, letting his torso collapse. The new position means Arthur is only inches from Eames, pressing his forearms against the glass with his head following. He bites his lip. His eyelashes trace his cheek like a painter’s brush pushed hard on a canvas. Eames is so close he can count them.

One. Two. Three –

Suddenly, the tentacle surges and thrusts deep into Arthur, and Arthur’s eyes fly open in shock, staring right into Eames’.

“Arthur,” Eames can’t help calling out, but Arthur looks away, eyes wet and face sweaty.

Arthur moans, whispering, “Fuck.” It sounds helpless and lost. The tentacle increases the speed of its thrusts causing Arthur to flail and clutch at the glass panel, his skin making squeaking noises when it slides over it. Arthur becomes frantic, trying to pull the tentacle out of his body with his right hand, but failing. A small black line snakes up Arthur’s leg, curling around his balls and higher until its tip nudges against the slit of Arthur’s cock. Eames feels faint when it pushes inside, thin and hard.

Eames expects Arthur to fight more, but instead Arthur stills completely, allowing the tentacles to fuck him.

“Oh,” Arthur breathes, fisting his cock and probably feeling the tentacle working its way in and out of it. The thin, dark needle running into his slit emphasizes how hard Arthur is. He’s been hard since the beginning, of course, due to the aphrodisiac, but this is the first time Eames sees him acknowledge his pleasure. “Eames...oh, fuck, don’t look.”

For a moment Eames closes his eyes, trying to respect Arthur's wishes. But what can Eames do, besides look? It’s for Arthur, not himself. Arthur doesn't have to be embarrassed and shouldn’t have to be alone.

In front of Eames, Arthur’s eyes begin to glaze over.

“Arthur!” Eames bangs against the panel, raw hand hitting the glass. “Look at me. Look at me. This is almost over.”

Shaking his head wildly, Arthur mutters, “No, no.”

Eames doesn’t know if he’s reacting to Eames or everything else, but he has to try. “You’re going to be fine.”

Arthur looks up. It’s the first time that Eames notices his wet face. They can’t be tears, though. Arthur doesn’t cry.

“This is not real,” says Eames, his voice small and insignificant against the reality of what he is seeing. “We’re going to go up and we’ll be – ”

He’s interrupted as the tentacle finally pulls out and Arthur groans in relief.

“See – ” Eames has just enough time to say, before another tentacle pushes its way into Arthur’s loose hole and Eames swallows his words. The stretching seems to make a difference, and combined with the aphrodisiac that’s forcing pleasure on Arthur, he almost looks sexy and debauched and not simply traumatized. His cheeks are flushed, his lips parted, and with every thrust of black Eames hears tiny “ah, ah” noises. They are familiar to Eames; Arthur makes them when he’s fucking or being fucked. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But this isn’t sex, this is twisted, and the sound of Arthur’s pleasure is so antithetical to everything Eames expects that it leaves Eames reeling.

“Eames,” Arthur suddenly breathes out, gritting his teeth, eyes squeezed shut. Eames didn’t notice, but he sees a load of the strange, mucus-like cum almost bubble out of Arthur, pumping and pumping. “Stop,” Arthur says, screaming to no one.

Helplessly, Eames watches as Arthur’s flat stomach starts to swell slightly. Arthur groans. He must be in pain, Eames thinks, but that’s when Arthur’s lips fall open and he comes all over the glass panel, splattering everywhere. But the swelling doesn’t stop, as far as Eames can tell. The tentacle keeps pumping it into Arthur’s body and Arthur moans again and presses his forehead against the panel, averting his eyes.

As if able to sense Arthur’s defeat, a smaller tentacle comes up, slipping itself into Arthur’s mouth. It slides forward and back, and Arthur keeps his mouth slack so it can use him. Soon, come starts trickling out of the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“What,” Eames says, banging his fist against the glass and trying to ignore the pain shooting up his arms when he does. “Leave him alone!” He feels ridiculous trying to talk to an entity with no ears, eyes, or mouth he can see, but Eames is helpless, anyway. Fucking useless.

The tentacle pulls out and Arthur shakes his head, beginning to retch up. His coughs splash the come against the panel, thick globs distorting Eames’ view, white-washing everything like so much paint.

It’s as if that was the magic password, the only thing that needed to happen. The glass shatters and Arthur drops like a bird taken out of flight by an arrow, the monster simply ceasing to exist. Eames lurches forward, careful of the broken glass, which is all on his side. He has shoes, at least, but Arthur is barefoot. Naked.

“Don’t,” Arthur tries to get up, but his hands and knees slide over the puddles of come surrounding him. “Don’t come near me, Eames.”

If it were anger in Arthur’s voice, Eames might have respected Arthur’s wishes and backed off, let more time burn off the dream and waited. The fire that lights in Arthur’s eyes when he’s fighting projections or pissed at Eames for fucking up his plans is absent, though. Arthur sounds terrified, his voice thready and weak like a moth-eaten blanket, ready to tear.

“You’re thinking I’ll do something?” Eames half-asks half-states in disbelief, knowing his every thought should be for Arthur but unable to stop the little crackle of anger at the assumption that Eames is – is some monster.

“No,” says Arthur, denying it. He shakes his head, and tries to rise slower than before, but his limbs are floppy like a rag doll, and his knee slides out from under him as if he’s on black ice. “We’re going to wake up in fifteen minutes,” Arthur mumbles and Eames knows that he’s trying to use logic here. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be alright.”

That’s fifteen minutes too long for both of them. Leaving Arthur to stew, literally kneeling in the evidence of the horrors committed, isn’t a viable option. At that thought Eames steps forward, steps hesitant and stance non-threatening, as if approaching a spooked animal.

Under Eames’ shoe, a piece of glass shatters, and suddenly Arthur sobs and spits onto the ground, more mucus coming up in coughs.

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames hears himself say, and he’s at Arthur’s side the next moment, steadying him with a hand to Arthur’s back.

“I said, don’t look at – ” more coughing hits Arthur like a wave, and he spits again at Eames’ feet “ – me!” After riding the coughs, Arthur shoves Eames and collapses backwards, ending up on his forearms. It’s the first time he isn’t curled over his torso, and Eames can now see that his cock is still so hard that it’s almost pressed up against his stomach. Before Eames can wrench his gaze away, he sees a line of pre-come connecting Arthur’s cock and his stomach, the bottom of his belly-button. “It’s just a dream.” Arthur says heavily as he pulls his legs up to hug his knees and look away. “I’ll be fine.”

The ridiculousness of the statement doesn’t need any attention called to it. Eames is used to watching himself and others be torn to pieces or shot to death, and is no longer as bothered by ripped flesh and flowing blood as he once was. What he can’t take, though, is this: Arthur helpless and in pain, confused and out of control.

“Let me help you,” Eames says, offering it the only way he knows how. He lifts his hands and gestures to Arthur’s neck, leaning forward.

“If you touch me...” There’s panic in Arthur’s eyes as he tracks Eames’ every movement, a sniper gun with no bullets left. “The. The poison is still working.”

Eames nods. “I’ll make this quick as can be.” He tries to sound non-judgemental, non-threatening, but Eames has never been one for sweet and gentle, especially with Arthur. They’re edges and mocking, biting curses and constant battle – Arthur is a right prick, a bloody bastard who’d fuck Eames’ mother for a pay raise, some days. Eames tries to remember all this as he tightens his hands around Arthur’s throat and squeezes.

He thinks he’s imagining it at first, the twitching of Arthur’s lower body, like a fish taken from the ocean and dying of oxygen. Arthur bucks up, almost flopping over Eames, and his cock dribbles out more come, a wheeze making it out of his mouth. It hits Eames, then, what’s happening: Arthur’s body is trying to come because it feels Eames’ skin. He doubles the pressure and counts off the minutes, closing his eyes when he feels Arthur snap and begin to claw at him  
unconsciously.

And then Arthur dies.

 

The wait is long, and it takes five minutes in-dream for Eames to realize that Arthur isn’t pulling his IV out or dumping him out of his chair. Eames paces, trying to form a gun in his mind, but it’s as it was before, the dream contracting and refusing to cooperate. Fear begins to take hold in the back of Eames’ mind, leaving Eames like a child waiting for a hidden boogeyman to jump out from a closet. Eames watches the corner of the room, waiting for a shadow or flicker to tell him he’s next.

It’s been seven minutes, give or take twenty seconds, when Eames falls up and out.

He feels like he should be gasping for air or crying or tense with fear, but he finds consciousness as easy as walking through a door. A spring breeze comes in through an open window, ruffling the yet sleeping girl’s hair before it curls around the others hooked to the PASIV.

Across from Eames, Arthur sits with his eyes still slammed shut, tight furrows in his brow like the left-over trenches of a war. The IV that connected him to the PASIV is still stuck under his skin, a burrowed bug that merges with his bloodstream. It’s one of the first thing PASIV users learn, to disconnect their IV line as soon as they wake so as to avoid accidentally falling back into the loop. But Arthur’s left it unattended. Eames swallows.

“Arthur?” he asks, even.

At the sound of a voice, Arthur starts, lifting his head to blearily stare at Eames.

“Yeah?” he asks. His voice sounds wrecked, like he – like he’s been giving blowjobs. If Eames looks closely, he can see small tracks down Arthur’s cheeks, little salt trails where tears ran. It’s the first time Eames’s ever seen such stark evidence of a dream on someone. Arthur's eyes drop to half-mast. “‘s wrong?” he asks.

“You don’t remember?” Eames slips his own IV and stands, slow and steady. Strong.

A tinkling noise floats through the window. There must be a wind chime hanging outside. 

Arthur lolls his head towards it, like a dog. Eames grits his teeth.

“No,” says Arthur, soft.

It’s like Eames has been shut in a dark room, Arthur slamming the door with that word. Eames can’t handle this memory alone, he suddenly realizes, the whole half-hour coming back in vivid details (Arthur helpless, the tentacles, the mucus, the pushing and pulling and taking). He needs Arthur to remember, even though it’s a mercy that Arthur seems not to. 

“Fuck,” says Eames, praying. He walks to Arthur’s side and lowers his hands to the IV, one hand on the needle and one on the space above it, holding the skin taut.

When they touch, Arthur snaps his head up even as he jerks his arm away – and Eames can see it, then, the memories in Arthur’s eyes, fear and desperation, dangling useless and watching Eames watch – right before Arthur comes in his slacks with a pained groan.

“Don’t look at me,” he says, close to begging, and Eames sighs. Relieved.


End file.
